


alone.

by prismatic_starstuff



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Exactly One (1) Swear Word, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, It can also be taken as entirely gen, It does not go well at first but they eventually get along, It's only shippy if you look at it that way, M/M, Mairon is mourning the loss of his master, Manwë comes down to talk, Souls Touching, Wing Hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prismatic_starstuff/pseuds/prismatic_starstuff
Summary: An unexpected meeting of Maia and Vala leads to an equally unexpected understanding.
Relationships: Manwë Súlimo/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	alone.

Mairon was alone. In all the world, in all Eä itself, he was alone; the one to whom he’d devoted his life was so far away, banished from Arda with no way of bringing him back… No matter how desperately he wanted to try, no matter how gladly he would offer all his strength to do so, no matter how many soldiers’ lives he’d happily throw away in the pursuit, he knew there was no breaking the Door of Night.

And so, Mairon was alone.

Alone with nought but his thoughts of Melkor, and the persistent thought repeating in his head: he hadn’t even been there to help him.

High up in the mountains of Mordor - the recently-claimed seat of his newfound power - the once-lieutenant-now-Dark Lord breathed a heavy sigh, his eyes falling closed as his head dropped. His master, the only one in all of creation who he would follow, the one who had taught him so much and showed him the true way of things; cast into the void, locked up like some lowly prisoner, trapped and powerless… Gloved hands curled into tight fists, searingly hot tears welling behind his eyelids in the absence of his minions’ presence.

It was _wrong._ Melkor should never have lost the war; he should have won, he should have been the one to cast the enemy into the void rather than the other way around, the Valar should have fallen before the mightiest of their kind…

Mairon should have been there to assist his master. Oh, how it pained his heart to know that when Melkor needed his service the most, he was far away in exile; if only he’d been there, if only he’d fought the Valar off, if only…

If only…

Those two words alone were enough to make Mairon feel as though his spirit would leave him.

His eyes opened slowly, usually as bright and intense as flame itself but now dulled with sorrow. The unspilled tears hidden behind his lids fell down his cheeks. His lips tightened in frustration at the sensation, at the weakness; yet he did nothing to stop it, merely allowing his physical form to do as it would.

At least he was alone.

…Or so he thought.

The Maia wasn’t paying any mind to his surroundings; the only beings in all Mordor were himself and his followers, so what was there to be mindful of? And so, he did not hear the flutter of wings, nor did he hear the landing of a figure behind him, nor did he hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Mairon?”

His eyes widened. That voice, those deep and commanding tones… Was he hearing things? Had he gone mad with grief? It had sounded just like his lost beloved… Turning sharply, he found himself greeted not by the loving red gaze of his master though, but by another; one which made his physical form’s stomach churn with revulsion.

The Vala had stopped at a respectable distance, but Mairon would know those wings anywhere. Risking a step closer, Manwë unfurled the smaller set of wings upon his head to show his face - a rare act of trust, not that any acts from him meant a thing to the Maia - and his blue eyes shone with something like concern.

Mairon would not accept concern from this one, though. Mairon would not accept anything from the one who’d locked away his Melkor; nothing other than his pain and suffering. “You _bastard!”_ The Maia’s voice was nothing like the charming and dulcet tones he used while moving in the circles of Eru’s children; rather his voice was like the towering of a hundred infernos, the smashing of a thousand glass vases, the howling of a million damned souls. One hand moved to unsheathe his sword even as he ran for the Vala, hair flowing behind him like a living trail of fire.

Manwë’s eyes widened, yet his face remained otherwise stoic; and he held out a hand and manipulated the winds, creating a tangible barrier between himself and the Maia. “I have come not to do battle,” he spoke, a barely-noticeable tremble in his voice betraying his emotions. “I have come merely to speak.”

“The only words that I have for you,” Mairon roared, eyes wide with rage, face stained with still-falling tears and sharp teeth bared in a snarl as he pressed forward still against the invisible barrier, “are _curses_ upon you and yours! The only sounds that I want to hear from your lips are screams of torment!”

Manwë’s hand trembled slightly, and he drew a breath. “I understand precisely why you would feel as such,” he began, “but I beseech you, Mairon, let me speak–”

“Be _silent!”_ The Maia lunged forward, as wild in appearance as any beast of battle might be, and the weak barrier that Manwë put between them gave way. Immediately Mairon drew back his sword, and in one swift thrust, he made to embed it in the Vala’s chest–

–but in even that brief space of time, Manwë had managed to disappear into the wind, and Mairon was left glancing left and right in search of him.

A pair of arms wrapped themselves around his midsection, and he was pulled back gently yet effortlessly, his back meeting a warm chest. “Enough,” the Vala’s voice was suddenly so close by, not aggressive nor mocking but even and calm. 

Fiery eyes widened further in anger and indignation, and the Maia’s breath came fast and hard as he immediately moved to break free. “Unhand me,” he growled in almost a whisper, his voice the agitated hiss of all Arda’s most venomous snakes. “Unhand me or so help me, I swear I will harm you in ways that your Ilúvatar could never hope to mend.”

“I will not.” Manwë’s hold around Mairon was not tight, and yet no amount of thrashing could prise him away, nor move him in the slightest. “Now please, be still, for I will not leave until I have said this to you. I owe you this much.”

Mairon’s heart pounded in his chest, rage and pain swirling violently inside him, and yet… he did find himself stilling. He cursed Ilúvatar for giving this disgusting Vala such a similar voice to his Melkor; were it not for that fact, he would have been far less inclined to listen…

He must have taken Mairon’s lack of ongoing protest as a good sign, for the winged Vala breathed a tiny sigh of relief, his eyes falling closed for a moment as he seemed to collect his thoughts. “…I know you are hurting.”

“Oh, how astute of you. Whatever gave you _that_ impression, I wonder,” Mairon mumbled bitterly, eyes narrowing and rolling in annoyance.

Manwë breathed a laugh, though it was not from amusement; by the sound of it, it was from embarrassment. “Yes, that was rather an unwise thing to say…” he admitted. “What I meant is that… I understand.”

The Maia’s body tensed, his anger reignited, the heat of his rage tangibly evident to the Vala who winced as it flared. “ _Never_ claim to understand my pain,” Mairon growled out. “You, the perpetrator of this crime, the one who cast Melkor away; in what manner could you ‘understand’ me?!”

“I _do!”_ Manwë’s voice had risen, not of anger, but of pure emotion. His arms tightened around Mairon’s waist, as though he needed something to hold on to. “Imprisoning Melkor in the void was not a decision I took lightly… It was not a decision I wanted to make! He was my brother-Vala once, and I loved him as a brother would… I love him still, even now.”

That almost-familiar voice once again calmed Mairon enough to entice him to listen, and he did, eyes casting downward as he considered Manwë’s words. “…You love him?” he repeated, his voice quieter and less venomous.

“Yes,” Manwë nodded enough for Mairon to feel his silvery hair against his cheek due to their closeness. “In the beginning, when first we came to Arda, I held out hope for him for as long as I could… I believed his lies, that he meant no harm, that he would change his destructive ways. Perhaps I was naive, yes… but I wanted to believe in him. I never wished for us to be at odds.”

The Maia simply allowed himself to listen, his anger dimming; though as it did, that ever-present misery which had taken up residence in him made itself known once more. The tears continued to spill down his pale face, though his expression was flat by this point. “…You only did what you did to defend your land, then,” he more stated than asked. As a soldier, he at least understood the concept…

“The land. The people. The work of not just myself, but all we Ainur.” Manwë sounded as distant and lost as Mairon looked, and in the back of his mind, the Maia realised that there was something comforting to him about that. “And in a way, Melkor himself.”

A frown slowly creased Mairon’s features, and he turned his head, even though he could not properly see Manwë from where he stood. “You locked him away to ‘defend’ him? What is that supposed to mean?”

Another soft laugh, yet again not out of amusement; in fact, this one sounded distinctly… sorrowful. “Mairon, I should think that you of all people would know exactly what I mean,” the Vala murmured. “I know that it will not be in your nature to forget him in any way, so surely you remember how he was during the war…”

Mairon’s lips tightened, a sharp stab of pain aching in his heart. “I was not with him during the war,” he practically whispered the words, the admission itself a struggle.

“Even before then, though,” Manwë gave a soft sigh. “Ever since he started chasing the Silmarils…”

It wasn’t something that Mairon could argue with. Although he had chosen not to dwell on it too much at the time - or forced himself not to - the Maia had noticed the changes in his master as their campaign had drawn on: how the defeats he suffered battered at his confidence and instilled in him a great paranoia, how his patience wore away along with his mental state in general, how he became more savage and desperate than ever before towards the end. Even Mairon, who loved Melkor and held him in such high regard, had been made so fearful by the thought of his wrath that he’d hidden away for hundreds of years rather than facing it...

There was a quiet rustling at his back as the mountain air lightly ruffled Manwë’s blue feathers, and he became aware of the quiet drumming of the Vala’s fingers against the side of the Maia’s breastplate. “I apologise. I should not have reminded you of those times,” he said softly, drawing back just a bit.

“Think nothing of it,” Mairon shook his head slowly, red curls bouncing lightly with his movement, his hands instinctively grasping onto the Vala’s arms to prevent him from moving further. “I had not forgotten. As you rightly deduced, I will never forget.”

“I will not forget him, either. In truth… part of the reason I sought you, Mairon,” and again the Maia had to fight the instinctive emotional response that grabbed a hold of him at the sound of that familiar tone speaking his name, “is that I wished to speak with one who does not abhor him. I wanted to assure you that no joy was taken in the act… and I wanted to mourn him.”

The hold that the Vala had put him in had long since lost any force it once had; it was now more like an embrace than anything, and Mairon found himself simply taking respite in the closeness. His head leaned back against Manwë, the red of his hair starkly contrasting the blue of Manwë’s robes. He found that his armoured hands did not release their light grasp upon the Vala’s arm.

“…Mairon?” Manwë asked, the surprise evident in his tone.

“…Just hold on to me for a while,” the Maia stated, his cat-like eyes falling closed once more, his tired frame leaning fully against the one at his back.

Manwë offered no words in response; instead he simply honoured Mairon’s request. After only a short moment’s consideration, he encircled the armoured Maia in the soft embrace of his blue-feathered wings; and he leaned his face softly, carefully down into his fiery curls.

Mairon could feel Manwë’s fëa reaching out to him then; a gentle, undemanding, kind gesture of togetherness. It was powerful, unbelievably so, just as Melkor’s had been; but unlike Melkor’s, it was… warm rather than hot, soft rather than unyielding, and while it didn’t have that addictive darkness that his master’s had, it was soothing enough in that moment that he found his own wounded fëa reaching for it in return.

And in that moment, even though his one and only love was still so far away, he didn’t feel alone.


End file.
